


Tumblr Drabble

by bigblueboxat221b



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, Originally Posted on Tumblr
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-19
Updated: 2018-08-25
Packaged: 2019-04-24 22:22:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 11,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14364924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigblueboxat221b/pseuds/bigblueboxat221b
Summary: A place to keep the drabbly bits I've posted on Tumblr.





	1. Mycroft Wearing Socks and Cooking Dinner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Like it says on the box. Inspired by a conversation with Mottlemoth on the wonders of domestic Mycroft.

Greg sighed, wincing as he tilted his head, feeling the sharp tug in his neck. Much as he grumbled about standing around at a crime scene, it beat hours and hours of paperwork any day. While he knew today probably didn’t mean anything in the world of grown up relationships, he remembered it vividly as The First Time Mycroft Had Cooked For Him. It warranted capitals in his mind; the first night of socks and a perfectly pressed apron. Of relaxed Mycroft settling quietly into domestic life with Greg. If he was Sherlock it would probably have a wing in his mind palace, he thought jokingly to himself. Mind palace? Christ. Too many pints with John, he berated himself, listening to him bang on about Sherlock.

The sound of the deadlock was reassuring as he turned his key, bracing for the cold stale air, wondering if he had the energy to call somewhere for dinner. Maybe toast would be enough. Or a few beers. All wheat products were equal, right?

It took several steps before Greg’s nose managed to alert his brain of the different atmosphere in his flat. Something smelled good. He stopped in the entranceway, breathing in the fragrant air. The smell was intoxicating, comforting. Inviting him into the warm air…Warm? That wasn’t right either, though if his memory served, the smell was familiar and meant only one thing…

Greg dropped his bag and coat in the general vicinity of the hooks, kicked off his shoes and strode into the kitchen, tempering his hopeful heart until the sight before him allowed it to burst forth.

“Good evening, Gregory.”

The words were heaven, somehow transported into his mediocre kitchen, borne by the most wonderful human ever to breathe the Earth’s air. Greg’s eyes roamed greedily over Mycroft, his Mycroft, the version only he was permitted to see. He catalogued each detail, savouring its precious intimacy.

Socked feet – his favourite. The ultimate sign of relaxation, of security and the intention to stay for a while. Or longer. He watched Mycroft’s long toes wiggle, enjoying their freedom from the Italian leather loafers he usually wore. Greg knew the softness of those socks, knew the feel of that fabric as it ghosted over his bare legs, lying quietly in bed, pyjama trousers rucked up with restless motion…

Mycroft’s white shirt was largely visible, the waistcoat having been abandoned. Braces were a delightful surprise – Mycroft rarely wore them, though Greg adored them – the very possibility of one of the clasps failing and Mycroft’s trousers dropping of their own accord was a tease in itself. From the colour, he could tell which pocket square – and pants – Mycroft would have chosen this morning. The man was nothing if not fastidious when it came to matching his accessories.

The shirt itself was a treat. Still crisp and white – how did he _do_ that, after at least twelve hours at work? – tailored to fit the slim torso, tucked neatly into the top of Mycroft’s dress trousers. Sleeves rolled up, sensibly out of the way of the vegetables he had been cutting. More importantly, they bared miles and _miles_ more pale skin for Greg’s viewing (and perhaps touching) pleasure. The sight brought forth mental images of muscles flexing as Mycroft’s hands gripped shoulders, pillows, the opposite side of the kitchen bench.

Greg swallowed as Mycroft turned around, smiling warmly at him.

Oh, God no tie. No. Tie. His shirt, previously having reached the highest level of desirability, surpassed itself. The single open button allowed the barest hint of flesh, a tempting glimpse of one of Greg’s favourite places. The suprasternal notch, John had informed him one day when Greg had been drunkenly trying to express the wonders of it. ‘The dippy bit under his [hic] tie,’ was how Greg had described it. The perfect hollow to rest his lips; the exact width of his tongue, should he chose to lick a single wide stripe slowly upwards. It was heaven, the exquisite perfection leading to the rest of Mycroft’s hidden skin. A gateway to paradise, Greg thought, eyes locked on the shadows hiding the spot.

“Hello,” Greg replied belatedly. Mycroft lowered the knife he had been using to prepare their meal, fingers reaching behind himself to remove the apron he’d brought with him that first time and never taken home. It was the rich green of a bed of moss, the perfect colour to offset pale skin kissed with freckles. Now it hung off a kitchen stool as the sublime white shirt and braces moved towards Greg, bare forearms encircling him, socked feet pressing against his own as Mycroft’s presence filled his soul. The gentle flutter of lips across his temple somehow banished the exhaustion and melancholia.

“You’re cooking,” Greg said, the obvious words still an effort.

“It’s September seventeenth, Gregory,” Mycroft murmured. “Of course I am.”

“Of course you are,” Greg replied, the contentment in his voice swirling, combining in the warm air with the scent of garlic.

“Perfect.”


	2. Texting Mycroft

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by a conversation about how cute Mycroft can be when he's texting.

11.07pm

Heya Myke hows tricks?

_11.09pm_

_Gregory?_

11.10pm

Yup.

_11.12pm_

_Good Lord, are you drunk?_

11.14pm

Jeez no and who remembers to capitalise the L in good lord?

You should just curse its easier.

_11.20pm_

_Was there a purpose to your message, or are you intending_ _simply to distract me from my tasks?_

11.24pm

Nothing in particular. Dinner last night was good.

_11.26pm_

_Bon is not ‘good’. It is one of the top restaurants in London._

11.29pm

Yeah good. Like I said.

Bet they can’t do a kebab like that place near Paddington Station though.

_11.32pm_

_I would be inclined to agree._

11.41pm

So youre having a good day then?

_11.43pm_

_My days are remarkable similar, from one to the next._

_This conversation is an exception, of course._

11.44pm

What you don’t usually get coppers texting for a chat? ;)

_11.46pm_

_It is not a common occurrence, no._

11.47pm

Do you have dinner plans tomorrow?

I could take you to the kebab place then next time we go to Bon we can ask them to make a kebab and we could compare.

_11.48pm_

_Please tell me you are joking._

11.51pm

About Bon yes.

About kebabs tomorrow tonight no.

_12.01am_

_You want to have dinner with me? Again?_

12.04am

Well yeah. I had a good time last night, Myke.

Oops past midnight. You know what I mean.

_12.07am_

_If you are not drunk, please call me Mycroft._

12.08am

Okay. Mycroft.

_12.14am_

_What is the purpose of our potential meeting tonight?_

12.15am

To try the kebabs ???

_12.17am_

_To what end?_

12.20am

What? I have no idea what youre asking.

Just out with it will you

12.25am

Okay a little drunk.

Tipsy.

Cab home I promise.

12.40am

Mycroft?

12.41am

Fuck. Sorry.

_12.45am_

_Do you have a personal interest in me?_

12.47am

What?

_12.51am_

_Are you asking me on a date, Gregory?_

12.53am

I guess I am. I mean I dont have anything else to say about Sherlock if thats what you mean.

_12.57am_

_That is our usual purpose._

12.59am

Yes. But we dont talk about him all night, and it would be nice to not have to talk about him at all.

1.00am

You know what I mean.

_1.02am_

_Yes, I do._

_1.05am_

_Why do you believe I would be interested in a date with you?_

1.06am

Um, ouch.

_1.07am_

_My apologies, I meant no slight Gregory._

_To speak plainly._

1.10am

Yeah?

 1.25am

Mycroft. Are you asking why I might think youre gay?

_1.31am_

_Yes._

1.33am

You do fit a certain stereotype, you know.

But that aside, I wasnt sure. I know youre not married and Sherlock seemed to think it was amusing when I asked him if youd ever been.

_1.35am_

_Good Lord, you spoke of this to Sherlock?_

1.36am

Ages ago.

Look, if youre not interested just say so.

I know even if youre gay you might not be interested.

Its fine. As long as we can still keep in touch about your brother Ill get over it.

_1.39am_

_You don’t sound particularly sure, Gregory._

1.41am

Im trying to be nice Mycroft. Christ you havent done this much have you?

_1.43am_

_No._

1.45am

Well, let’s lay it all out there. AMA.

_1.46am_

_I beg your pardon?_

1.48am

Ask Me Anything. Its an internet thing according to my niece.

_1.50am_

_Very well._

_1.51am_

_Have you dated men before?_

1.52am

Yes. Before I was married, obviously.

_1.53am_

_Were they serious relationships?_

1.55am

One was. We lived together for a couple of years.

_1.59am_

_What would be your intentions towards me?_

2.00am

I dont understand the question.

_2.07am_

_Are you interested in something short term,_ _or potentially more serious?_

2.09am

Difficult question.

2.11am

If you were offering a one off or something casual I would probably take it.

_2.11am_

_But if it was your decision?_

2.11am

I want to get to know you Mycroft. Not just a shag and goodbye.

2.18am

Mycroft?

_2.19am_

_I’m here._

_Processing._

2.19am

Okay. Take as long as you need.

_7.00am_

_Gregory?_

7.02am

Yeah?

_7.04am_

_How long have you been interested in me?_

7.05am

A while.

_7.07am_

_How long is a while?_

7.09am

Wed be measuring in months.

7.10am

Double digit months.

_7.11am_

_Really?_

7.12am

Yep.

_7.19am_

_And why are you extending this invitation now?_

7.32am

Its almost my birthday.

_7.33am_

_I’m afraid I don’t understand the significance._

7.46am

My dad had a heart attack and died when he was as old as Ill be next month.

_7.47am_

_Ah. Carpe diem._

7.49am

Yeah. Now or never right? At least Ill know.

_7.50am_

_Indeed._

_7.52am_

_What time would you suggest my car pick you up this evening?_

7.55am

Seriously?

_8.01am_

_To answer the same questions as I put to you, Gregory:_

_I_ _have dated men exclusively._

_None were serious._

_I would be exceptionally interested in getting to know you,_ _though if a short term or casual arrangement were the only_ _opportunities I would certainly avail myself of them._

_I have been deeply attracted to you since March 15, 2003,_ _the day we first met at Royal London Hospital._

8.07am

Wow.

Now I know.

_8.09am_

_Yes, you do._

8.14am

See you at 7 tonight.

_8.16am_

_Indeed, Gregory._


	3. Driving Gloves

Driving with Mycroft was a delicious torture for Greg. Something about the taller man's quiet competence pinged deep within him, making Greg's fingers itch to take Mycroft apart, to slowly touch and peel apart the layers until acres of pale skin were arching just for him.

Watching Mycroft dress for their excursion - a day trip to Oxford - Greg wondered if his appreciation was evident to Mycroft. He watched as the perfect French cuffs fitted over Mycroft's driving gloves, black leather and sinfully well fitted. Greg suppressed a smirk at the exposed watch face - only Mycroft would want to be able to access it while driving.

Swallowing a groan, Greg raised his eyes to Mycroft's knowing grin.

"Is it that obvious?" Greg asked wryly.

Yes," Mycroft replied calmly. "Why else would we be driving to Oxford?"


	4. Sunday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Soft Smut Sunday on tumblr. Check it out for more lovelies. #softsmutsunday

Sundays were their day, and Greg loved it. Years of patience, of waking as Mycroft slipped out in the middle of the night to avert some crisis, of wincing as he disturbed Mycroft when he was the one dragged out of bed by work. Years of missed dinners, of passing like ships in the night, and finally, _finally,_ they were both able to carve out this regular time in their week.

Even an international crisis wasn’t enough to draw Mycroft away anymore. There were enough others – younger, more enthusiastic employees – to hold the fort for twenty-four hours. Especially when they both knew what the day would hold, undisturbed in their haven. It was a powerful motivator.

There would be waking up together. Soft words, soft hands, soft skin heralding the beginning of their day together. Slow words, whispered under covers, giggles turning to gasps as lips found sensitive spots without guessing. Time together had made each body as familiar as the other, and the intimacy drew a cloak of comfort around them both.

A shower or bath was theoretically for cleaning up, though the words and the hand and the skin were still present, drawing out the perfunctory into a luxurious experience most Sundays. Greg loved leaning against the tiles, head on bent arms as Mycroft washed his hair. It was slow and unhurried, the whole day ahead to worship each other. Inevitably, his fingers would drift lower, caressing nipples, the shape of Greg’s arse, holding his cock as it filled out. The water over his skin was glorious as Mycroft fucked him open, long fingers stretching him, sparking heat through his abdomen. Greg panted into the humid air, Mycroft’s hand gliding over his skin, stroking him until he groaned and called Mycroft’s name.

Sundays were their day, and Greg loved it.


	5. The Universal Attraction of John Watson's Watson

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Five people John accidentally sent a dick pic to, and the one he actually meant to send it to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Technically, posted on Facebook, but *shrug.

  1. **Mrs. H.**



“Oh, John, dear…”

John stopped, bit back a sigh and turned with a smile to Mrs. Hudson.

“Yes, Mrs. Hudson?”

“Not sure about that picture last night, dear. I’ve seen my share of men’s bits of course, but I’m not sure it’s really appropriate, do you?”

John stared at her, too mortified to move. Finally, he cleared his throat. “My apologies, Mrs. Hudson. It won’t happen again.”

 

  1. **Sally**



“So I’m guessing you and the Freak aren’t exclusive, then?” Sally smirked.

“What?” John said, only half listening. Most of what she said wasn’t worth listening to, especially in that nasty tone.

“I mean, if you’re sending that kind of pic even to me, you must be desperate for something real,” she said. She looked around, then lowered her voice. “I do know a place, though. Discreet, rent by the hour, you know what I mean?”

John turned to her. “If you’re talking about the picture I sent accidentally last night, I have never been more certain I sent it to the wrong number.”

 

  1. **Greg**



“John?” Greg asked, casting a look at Sherlock. “Can I have a word?”

“Yeah,” John said. Sherlock was deep in his mind palace, he wouldn’t even notice.

“Look, mate, you sent me a picture last night.” Greg looked deeply uncomfortable. He rubbed his hands together awkwardly, then looked right at John and blurted, “I didn’t know you were bi, too.”

John stared at him. “Yeah, I am.”

The silence stretched out until they both spoke at once.

“I didn’t mean to…”

“D’you wanna get a drink…”

Horrified, they both looked at each other for a moment.

“So, this never happened, then?” John said finally.

Greg nodded. John bolted.

 

  1. **Mary**



“So I see you finally changed your mind then,” the voice in his ear was swiftly followed by a tongue. John’s reflexes, normally fast and accurate, faltered at this unexpected element. The person on the other end of the voice – female, shorter than him, overwhelmingly floral in scent – took his lack of response as encouragement. “I was so glad you sent me that picture, John,” the same voice panted in his ear, as a body pressed him against the break-room wall. God, if his boss walked in on this...

“No,” he managed, wiggling away from a hand that had just swiped alarmingly close to his groin. Turning, he saw that his boss would not mind a bit – given that she was the one standing before him, a triumphant and predatory look in her eye.

“Really?” she asked, raising one eyebrow.

“Really, Mary,” he said firmly. “Last night’s picture was a mistake.”

She pouted. “Well, if you’re sure. That door is always open for you, though.” The wink she gave him as she left triggered a huge shudder of distaste. He’d need a shower now or nobody would believe they hadn’t been shagging.

 

  1. **Mycroft**



“Doctor Watson.”

“Christ, not you too.”

“I beg your pardon?”

John sighed. “Rest assured, Mycroft, that any image I sent you last night was accidental.”

“Of course.”

Mycroft sounded…disappointed? John chose to ignore the possible reason behind his disappointment and instead asked, “Maybe you could drop me home, then.”

“Certainly, Doctor Watson.”

Thank Christ they didn’t have to have that conversation, John thought to himself.

 

**And one…**

John steeled himself as he mounted the stairs. Given the range of encounters he’d had today, it was very likely Sherlock had been on the other end of an, um, intimate picture of John last night. Christ, of all the people, John thought to himself.

“John?” he heard his name as he headed upstairs to his room. With a sigh, John turned to enter the sitting room instead.

“Do you know why I called you in here?” Sherlock asked.

“Because I accidentally sent you a dick pic?” John answered, too tired to play games.

Sherlock froze, and John belatedly realised he was pouring a second glass of wine. “Accidentally?” Sherlock repeated.

John blinked, taking in the scene. He felt oddly like Sherlock must, picking up all the details – freshly washed hair, clean shaven but missed a bit (nervous and distracted), flat is tidier, pouring wine – and making one conclusion.

“Well, yes,” John said, with swelling confidence (amongst other things). “I sent it accidentally…to everyone I know.” Sherlock nodded, a little confused. John stepped closer. “I only wanted one person to see it,” he whispered, waiting for the light of understanding to shine in Sherlock’s eyes before reaching out to tug him down into a kiss.


	6. Symphony

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mike Stamford knows exactly what Greg Lestrade likes and needs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to the Stamstrade Appreciation Society over there on tumblr <3

“Yes?”

“Yes,” breathed Greg, the heat from his words pressing into his lover’s hair.

Mike’s fingers were careful and precise as always, moving across Greg’s skin like poetry. Greg gasped as Mike found the sensitive spots he loved, the symphony of their lovemaking as always a testament to how well they knew each other.

“Please,” Greg whispered, arching into Mike’s touch. He closed his eyes, breath stuttering as fingers breached him, pressed into him.

“Moan for me, pet,” Mike encouraged him, pressing gentle lips to his collarbone.

Greg’s mouth fell open, waves of pleasure building. He was helpless to do anything but please his Mike, moaning his desire, sharing it with Mike, making it theirs.

“Come for me,” Mike whispered, pressing expert fingers, finding the core of Greg and sending blinding white through his body. Greg’s fingers clenched, tightening around Mike’s shoulders, mirroring his lower body as it tightened around Mike’s fingers.

“Mike, Mike,” Greg panted, holding him close, loving him hard.


	7. Glass Half Full

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg's determined to help Mycroft even if he's seriously ill.

“I’m sorry, Greg, I won’t be able to make it this evening.”

Greg frowned at the formality of Mycroft’s voice.

“Are you alright? You sound, I dunno, kind of strained.”

“I will be fine.” Mycroft said even more stiffly than before.

“You _will_ be? Are you not okay now?” Greg asked in alarm.

“I am…somewhat uncomfortable.” Mycroft allowed.

“I have been attended by a medical professional and he assured me I will be fine.”

The words were barely out of his mouth before Greg spoke.

“Send me a car.”

“That is not necessa-” Mycroft began.

“We both know if I knew your bloody address I wouldn’t be asking, I’d be on my way by now, Mycroft. Something’s happened. Send me a car.” His voice, which had jumped to ‘do what I’m telling you, I’m the boss’, softened.

“Please, Mycroft.”

Greg breathed into the silence, his stomach roiling as possibilities raced through his mind.

“Please tell me what’s happened. Please, send me a car.” His voice had dropped to a whisper as his mind threw awful possibilities at him, at the awful things people could do to each other.

He heard Mycroft sigh, and a tiny part of his anxiety eased. The sigh meant Mycroft was giving in. It meant he was sending a text right now, that a car was on the way.

“Greg,” Mycroft murmured, and Greg bit back the urge to hurry him along.

“I fear I will be poor company.”

“More details, Mycroft.” Greg knew he sounded tense, but it was the best he could do without more details.

To Mycroft, understatement was an art form, and Greg knew he was a master of his chosen medium.

“I fear I have been infected with varicella.”

Greg paused, his heart heaving. _Infected._ Was it a terrorist attack? A targeted attack, or was Mycroft one of many?

“How…how serious is it?”

The tremble in his voice would not be quelled.

“I am supremely uncomfortable. My doctor assures me it should pass, however I…” Mycroft hesitated. “I am quite contagious. Have been so for several days, which means you may be at risk of illness yourself.”

“Christ,” Greg murmured. He and Mycroft had spent the weekend wrapped around each other. Swapping spit was the least of it, he thought, hearing the hysteria in his mind.

“You should take some time off work,” Mycroft said, but Greg was already moving.

“Nope,” he said, grabbing an overnight bag and throwing an assortment of clothes, toiletries and other items at it.

“I’m coming over and I’m not leaving until we’re both clear of this.”

_One way or another._

“Greg,” Mycroft said, astonishment in his voice at Greg’s newly steely voice. “I hardly think-”

“See you soon,” Greg blurted, hanging up his phone and chucking it in the bag. He grabbed a few other things and opened the door as soon as the discreet knock sounded, heart thudding dully against his chest.

+++

As soon as they arrived, Greg knocked impatiently, rocking from heels to toes as he waited. When the door finally opened, Greg pushed in, eyes raking over Mycroft, his attire distracting for a moment before Greg noticed the state of his skin.

No socks.

Pyjama bottoms.

No shirt.

But his skin…was he shiny and…golden?

“What…” Greg frowned, looking at Mycroft’s chest. Raising his hand hesitantly, he reached out, not-quite touching the viscous liquid that seemed to be slowly seeping down Mycroft’s chest.

“Honey,” Mycroft said, closing the door behind Greg. His expression was resigned, his voice matching perfectly.

“I’m not sure you understood me earlier, Greg. I have chicken pox. You are at risk of infection, but it will not be evident for ten to twenty-one days from exposure.”

“Chickenpox?” Greg repeated.

He blinked.

“Didn’t you have it as a child?”

“No,” Mycroft replied. “We were not exposed to a large number of children.”

“Right,” Greg said, still staring at Mycroft’s sticky chest. “Um, and the honey?”

“An effort to ease the itching,” said Mycroft, shifting his weight uncomfortably. “It is working on the blisters I can reach, at least.”

At the words ‘chicken-pox’, Greg’s heart had unclenched. _Chicken-pox?_ The effort now was in keeping his amusement at bay. Mycroft was obviously mortified at the idea of anyone knowing about his illness, yet his strict moral code would not allow him not to notify Greg of the risk to his own health. _Oh Mycroft, you’re such a sweetheart_ , he thought to himself. _An anxious, timid sweetheart_.

“Well never fear, Nurse Greg is here.” Greg grinned, idly dipping one finger in the honey.

“Greg,” Mycroft protested, pulling away.

“I had chicken pox twice as a kid,” Greg told him, “and nursed my niece and nephew through it a couple of years ago without copping it again, so I’d say it’s a pretty slim chance I’ll get sick this time.” He allowed himself a cheeky grin. “Good excuse to kip here with you for a few weeks, though.”

The indecision played across Mycroft’s face. His uncomfortable shifting told a clear tale of the extent of his distress – Greg had never seen him reveal so much. The empathy in his heart swelled proportionally with Mycroft’s uncomfortable hand clenching. Right, he had the skills to deal with this far better than Mycroft clearly did.

“Okay, the honey’s a good idea for some of these blisters,” Greg said, making the decision for Mycroft. “But as for now, let’s get you into a cool bath. I know you have baking soda around, but if you get Anthea on the line I’ll get her to send over a pile of other stuff.”

He watched relief flood Mycroft’s face, quickly tempered by his usual cautious expression. “If you insist,” he murmured.

“I do,” Greg replied affectionately. “Come on, call Anthea and we can get you into the bath.”

“I find myself inappropriately thankful to have exposed you to this ridiculous situation,” Mycroft murmured, walking awkwardly over to pick up his phone.

“And have you suffer through this on your own?” Greg scoffed, texting Anthea a list in the proffered phone. “There would have been strong words if you had done.”

Mycroft looked abashed. “Thank you,” he whispered.

“As long as you tell my work I need to be quarantined with you ‘til we’re absolutely sure I’m clear,” Greg told him, “I can’t see much of a down side.”

“Apart from my highly uncomfortable, infectious and potentially disfiguring disease?” Mycroft responded.

“And that’s why I love you,” Greg said, grinning as Mycroft’s eyes widened at the admission. “You’re such a glass half full kind of person.”

“A realistic perspective-” Mycroft began.

Greg’s lips stopped him, pressing gently and insistently. When Mycroft finally acquiesced, Greg smiled, still pressed against Mycroft.

“Looks like we’ll both be in that bath,” he murmured, feeling the tug of honey against his t-shirt.

To his relief, Mycroft’s lips twitched.

“Glass half full, then,” he replied.


	8. Late Night Wake-Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Being woken when Mycroft gets home late can have its benefits.

“Greg?”

The voice was quiet, but Greg woke immediately. He hummed and rolled to the side, reaching automatically for Mycroft. When he found only empty sheets – warm, but vacant – Greg’s eyes opened.

“My?” Greg blinked against the light. “Whazzup?”

“Greg.” The questioning tone was gone, but Greg could still hear an inviting thread in his lover’s voice.

“Where are you?” Greg asked, pushing his way out from under the covers.

“Bathroom,” came the short reply.

Greg stumbled over, scrubbing at his eyes as he followed Mycroft’s summons. “Mycroft? Are you-oh.”

The lights were dimmed, but there was enough to take in the scene.

And what a scene.

Mycroft, seated in the bath, surrounded by bubbles. Scented bubbles, Greg could tell even from the doorway.

His eyes took in other details.

Champagne.

Strawberries.

Low music he’d not initially registered.

“Long day?” Greg asked, smiling at last.

Mycroft hummed in response, relaxing as he registered Greg’s amusement rather than irritation at his late night wake up call.

Greg slid out of his pyjama bottoms, sinking into the water, pressing against Mycroft’s skin.

“Maybe we can put that behind you,” Greg murmured, kissing Mycroft hello.

“Yes,” Mycroft replied. “I would very much like to do so.”

Greg was still asleep enough to remember the midnight interlude in snapshots.

Lips, teeth, tongues tangling, slow and familiar. Comforting.

Whispered promises, assurances, sweet nothings.

Hands stroking and pressing, loving skin, ghosting through the water with ease.

Greg panting into Mycroft’s collarbone, ecstasy blooming through him.

The taste of Mycroft’s earlobe, tinted with bubbles and strawberries.

Hot breath in his ear, firm flesh tight in his grip, a rush of satisfaction as Mycroft came hard against him.

More words, quiet nothings.

Warm towels.

Cool sheets.

Safe haven.


	9. If You Would Like To Stay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mystrade h/c.   
> Set during the Hounds of Baskerville.

“Mycroft?”

In retrospect, calling out to the man while he was in such a precarious position was not the wisest thing he’d ever done. Greg watched in slow motion as Mycroft, startled by his voice, swung around on the uneven stone wall, only to lose his balance. Without thinking, Greg lunged forward to break his fall.

And break his fall he did, Mycroft landing far more heavily than Greg had anticipated. Both men crumbled to the ground, gasping as the wind was knocked out of them.

“Christ…are you alright?” Greg asked, still staring at the sky.

“Gregory?” Mycroft’s voice came from his left. As Greg turned towards it, a shooting pain bloomed in his neck. He let out a guttural groan at the pain, reaching up instinctively.

“Are you hurt?” Mycroft asked, his voice…different. This time Greg shifted himself carefully, turning his whole body towards the sound. He levered his torso up, wincing at the twinges in his neck. When he was finally sitting upright, Greg opened his eyes.

Mycroft was sitting in front of him, face pale, clutching one wrist. His hair was dishevelled, Greg noticed, and there was a streak of mud on his trousers.

“Gregory, will you answer me please?” Mycroft’s voice was sharper this time.

“Yeah, sorry, think I might have pulled a muscle or something,” Greg muttered, feeling more foolish with every passing moment. “Have you hurt your wrist?”

“Merely a sprain, I hope,” Mycroft confirmed. His cheeks flushed as he added, “You startled me.”

“Sorry,” Greg mumbled, knowing the heat in his own face would be equally visible. “Not every day you see Mycroft Holmes walking along a stone wall in Dartmoor.”

“I suppose not,” Mycroft allowed.

“Can you…I mean, do you need a hand getting up?” Greg asked, gingerly standing and testing his own limbs and back, all of which seemed to be in the same state as they had been before. Old, but not injured, thank God. Just his neck, then.

“That would be…thank you,” Mycroft said finally. Greg extended one hand and Mycroft, holding his injured wrist protectively to his body, managed to stand himself up, too.

“So I can’t not ask,” Greg blurted, when the awkward moment threatened to stretch on forever. “What were you doing, exactly?”

Mycroft’s face flushed again, a sunset red the likes of which Greg had not seen in years.

“Sherlock and I…” he began, then stopped. “I taught him to walk along the tops of the walls on our estate,” he said. “He liked to be closer in height to those he was…”

“Irritating?” Greg suggested with a grin.

“Sometimes, yes,” Mycroft replied. “I was just,” he paused, “reliving the past, I suppose.”

“Fair enough,” Greg said. “Look, I know you didn’t want Sherlock to know you’re out here while he deals with that dog thing-”

“-hound, Gregory-”

“-Yeah, well, we both need some medical attention.”

Mycroft paused, and Greg could see him thinking. He must have reached a decision, because he said, “We could call a physician from my cottage.” He indicated the small structure behind him.

“Really? That would be great,” Greg blurted. His neck was killing him and he was sure Sherlock would call any minute wanting some ridiculous thing or another.

“Certainly,” Mycroft replied.

+++

“I’m telling you, the tea’s done as much good as the painkillers, Mycroft.” Greg knew his voice was a bit wonky but he felt warm and comfortable. The pills were pretty strong, he reckoned happily, stretching his legs out to the coffee table.

“I must agree, Gregory,” Mycroft murmured. His eyes were closed, bandages wrist laying carefully on his chest, feet on the same coffee table. Greg had seen him take the same dose – two pills – and he wondered if Mycroft was feeling the same warm smoothness to the world.

Mycroft was quiet for so long Greg wondered if he’d fallen asleep.

“The facts are simple,” Mycroft said eventually. “Sherlock is a remarkable human who believes he is not. His belief is primarily my fault, and I strive daily to atone for it.”

The fire crackled quietly as Greg absorbed this frank admission. He cast about for something to say, but what do you say to someone who can make that statement with such certainty? Sighing, Greg did the only thing he thought might help. Carefully, he slid across the sofa, the possibility of pain making him more cautious than any possible repercussions for his actions. When he reached Mycroft, Greg stopped. He couldn’t turn on his side, nor could he tilt his head as he wanted to.

In the end, Greg settled next to Mycroft, feet propped side by side. Carefully, he reached over, taking Mycroft’s uninjured hand where it sat protectively over the bandages. When there was no protest, only an indrawn breath, Greg interlaced their fingers, palms pressing together, and laid their joined hands in the space between their bodies. He didn’t say anything – Christ knew his words could be clumsy. This, though, this was honest and hopefully comforting. Just knowing someone was there.

Mycroft hadn’t spoken or moved since Greg first shifted, and Greg closed his eyes, relaxing into the slight giddiness of his narcotic haze. It was nice, just sitting with someone, he thought. Even if that person might have me deported if he wakes up to find I’ve started holding his hand while he sleeps.

Greg’s mind started offering helpful advice for packing, just in case he was deported. He was ruminating on the pros and cons of taking his limited edition copy of Die Hard when Mycroft shifted. Greg held his breath. Was Mycroft getting up, gently rejecting this physical gesture of support?

Before Greg could work up a decent sense of disappointment, Mycroft had rolled towards him, his injured hand coming to rest carefully on Greg’s chest, face pressing against his shoulder. The move was so unexpected Greg froze until the quiet voice broke the silence.

“Thank you, Gregory.”

“You’re welcome.” Greg said automatically. Half of his brain was panicking and he thought the other half was still packing for his deportation, but there must have been some small part still in change of social niceties.

“If you would like to stay,” Mycroft said, his words muffled against Greg’s jumper, “I would be most glad of your comfort.”

Greg’s heart stuttered. “I’d love to,” he blurted, squeezing Mycroft’s fingers where they were still pressed together.


	10. Happy Birthday Lizzie, or why Mycroft's grateful for the long weekend.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From a prompt positing the idea of Mycroft getting all hot and bothered when he spies Greg doing something physically demanding.

Mycroft ground his teeth in irritation. His driver shouldn’t have been working with such a weak back – the paramedics on scene with the police had sent him home with pain medication and an amused smile. Most drivers do not injure themselves changing a tyre.

While standing staring at the half completed job, Mycroft considered his options. Given the long weekend – Queen’s Birthday, hottest of the year – most of his staff were on leave, and he was loathed to interrupt it for something as menial as this.

On the other hand, he was hardly dressed for manual labour.

On the other other hand, the car could not stay here all afternoon.

With a sigh, Mycroft resigned himself to call roadside assistance. The wait would be long but it was unavoidable.

“Need a hand?” The voice was that of the devil, offering sweet temptation to a man sorely in need of the sweet fruit.

“Not at all, Detective Inspector,” Mycroft replied. “I’m sure roadside assistance will be here soon.”

“Yeah, right,” Greg replied, already loosening his tie and shucking his jacket. “You’ll be lucky to be out of here before dark.”

“Honestly,” Mycroft began, but Greg waved him off, picking up the tyre iron.

“The team’s gone, I’m not even meant to be here, so let me help you out,” Greg said, grunting as the stubborn nuts refused to give. “You need to tell your mechanic not to tighten these so much. There’s safe and then there’s overkill,” he said, finally getting the last nut to budge.

The first trickle of sweat rolled leisurely down Greg’s temple. Mycroft watched its progress with interest. It was soon joined by others, as Greg manhandled the flat tyre off and the spare tyre on. It was fascinating watching him work. He moved with confidence, the muscles of his arms and back shifting fluidly under the cotton of his shirt.

Mycroft burned with the sudden need to see the bare skin contract and stretch without the clothes hampering his view. As Greg stretched his hand to reach the nut, dark fabric showed under his arm.

Mycroft swallowed hard. His eyes roved to the back of the tanned neck, droplets of moisture collecting like diamonds in the sun before collecting to slide down and be absorbed by the cotton shirt.

The sheer maleness of it was breath-taking. The physical labourer in all his glory. Grunts of effort, forged metal clanging against metal, the sheen of sweat evidence of Greg’s effort on Mycroft’s behalf.

It was possibly the most arousing thing Mycroft had ever witnessed. Alas, it could not last forever.

“There you go,” Greg said, examining the tyre. “Yeah, there you go, run over a nail.”

He pointed, glancing up as though expecting Mycroft to come and view the damage first hand. Dutifully Mycroft did so, more for the opportunity to breathe deeply, the smell of automotive grease and deodorant and sweat combining in a heady mixture.

“Thank you,” Mycroft murmured, eyes catching on the image of Greg, white teeth in tanned skin, eyes bright with the satisfaction of a job complete. His hair, now a little damp, spiked more than usual. Mycroft gripped his umbrella, resisting the urge to feel it.

And now that he watched, the face he had been cataloguing changed. The expression became calculating, then blossomed into understanding – and a knowing smirk.

“You know,” Greg said, slamming the boot on the flat tyre, “I could really do with a shower now.” He flashed Mycroft a cheeky grin. “Any idea where I could find one of those?”

Mycroft’s heart jumped into his mouth, and he swallowed hard to restore anatomical geography.

“Certainly,” he replied. At Greg’s obvious delight, he added, “though it is a complex system. You may need some assistance.”

“I would say I do,” Greg replied. “Perhaps you can get your hands dirty this time, Mister Holmes.”


	11. Soft Smut Sunday/Slightly Silly Sunday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg's fascinated by the colours he finds...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, my Soft Smut Sunday was hijacked, hence the dual titles.

“So many colours…” Greg murmured.

His mouth trailed up Mycroft’s thigh, tasting the delicate hairs. Gold, russet, deep auburn.

Mycroft was a true ginger, each individual hair a different shade. The sun changed it. Wetness changed it – like when Greg nosed up that trembling inner thigh, examining the shades before licking a stripe wet and filthy, fascinated to see the darker versions of the same colours, plastered to pale skin by his tongue.

Mycroft never held still so he could get a really good look, but that didn’t matter. The colours could blur together as Mycroft shook for him, breath cooling the skin beneath, teasing him as Greg took his sweet time.

______________________________________

 

“Golden sunset. Russet. Tangerine. Marmalade. Ancient Bronze. True Honey…”

Mycroft frowned through the haze of arousal.

“Wha…” he swallowed hard as fingers grazed his nipple. “Greg-ory. What are…”

“What am I doing?” Greg asked. He paused, looking up at Mycroft.

Good Lord, Mycroft thought. Those eyes peering up from between his legs…he would never tire of that sight.

He nodded.

“I am naming the colours I can see.” Greg replied, _those eyes_ glinting in amusement.

“Why?”

“Because I can.”

Mycroft struggled to formulate the question that was buzzing insistently in his mind. “But…the colours…names of the colours…where…”  
“Mmmm,” Greg replied, turning his attention to the other thigh.

“Marmalade over here.” He licked a wide path, wresting a groan from Mycroft. “but more…Ancient Bronze when it’s wet.”

“Gregory!” Mycroft bit out, panting.

Greg took pity, resting his chin on Mycroft’s quadriceps. “Remember when you dragged me to choose paint colours for the new kitchen, and I said I didn’t care, and you went off in a huff to the other end of the sample wall to look at shades of blue?”

Mycroft nodded. The fingers were still grazing his nipple, and it sorely tested his concentration.

“I was still looking at samples.”

“You were…matching paint samples…”

“To the shades of your leg hairs, yes,” Greg confirmed, grinning. “More fun than kitchen cabinets.” He licked higher, nosing along the crease of Mycroft’s hip. “Not just your legs, Mycroft.”

Mycroft groaned.

“Your skin here is somewhere between Ivory and White Linen,” Greg whispered, kissing along the crease. He paused.

To Mycroft’s alarm, he felt Greg start to shake.

“Gregory?” he asked, and when there was no answer he sat up, tugging at his lover, anxiety threading through him.

“I’m okay, I’m okay,” Greg gasped as Mycroft pulled him upright.

He was laughing.

“What…why are you _laughing_?” Mycroft asked. His heart was pounding in confusion – first arousal, then anxiety, then the dread that he had done something, said something to bring Gregory to tears. And now…mirth?

“I was just wondering if perhaps, next time I could pick up some sample cards,” Greg said, the skin around his eyes crinkling as his chuckles escaped his restraint. “Check if I’m right.”

Mycroft blinked, the image rising in his mind. Greg with a handful of paint colours, comparing them to the hairs on his body. Checking off the most ridiculous names, giggling like a schoolchild at the silly, loving play.

It was breath-taking to be allowed to see such intimacy, to be part of it.

Mycroft allowed one eyebrow to rise, his lips to fold into the smirk he often used to preview a particularly naughty idea.

Greg’s breath caught.

 _Good, he’s made that connection_ , Mycroft thought with satisfaction.

“Silver.” Mycroft said. When Greg looked confused, he added, “Slate Grey. Graphite. Ash White. Charcoal.” To make his point, he threaded fingers into Greg’s hair, tugging gently on the strands.

“Turnabout is fair play, Gregory.”

“True,” Greg replied, unable to hide the thread of desire in his roughened voice. “So back to the paint aisle, then?”

“Oh, I think so,” Mycroft agreed, pulling Greg in close once again. “But not quite yet.”


	12. Linger (Mystrade)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by [If You Were Beside Me](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14971709).  
> Thanks, BrynTWedge <3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: MCD.

It’s ridiculous. It only lingers because Greg had been busy at the scene that went pear shaped.

By the time he was home, Mycroft was asleep.

They didn’t have a chance to apologise that night.

To resolve it.

They’ve had disagreements before, but never like this. Never to this extent.

Mycroft has never stopped making Greg’s coffee in the morning.

The first time it happens, Greg thinks it must be an oversight. Mycroft looks terrible; things at work must be worse than usual.

He has been away recently, after all.

The second time, Mycroft is halfway through making his own coffee before he freezes.

“Oh.”

His hands shake a little, but he only makes a single cup that morning.

So Greg tries to be more thoughtful than usual. He makes sure to put things back when he’s used them, ensures the lid goes back on the milk, stays out of the bathroom when Mycroft’s getting ready for work.

He doesn’t push.

Mycroft doesn’t say anything. Greg can’t tell if that’s good or bad, so he keeps on doing it.

He’s patient, and when Mycroft wants to talk, he’ll talk.

There’s not much to do when Mycroft’s at work, so Greg mainly reads and watches TV. His favourite movies are on, and his mind is peaceful as he watches.

When Mycroft comes in late, Greg drinks him in, longing to go and say hello, to slide his hands around his husband’s waist and hold him close.

He knows Mycroft needs his space, though, so he restrains himself.

+++

The day Mycroft speaks to Greg, his voice is hoarse.

It trembles at the same cadence as his hands.

“Gregory,” he whispers. It’s more of a prayer than anything.

Greg doesn’t reply. His eyes are wet, his heart aching.

“I miss you,” Mycroft says, and Greg’s heart breaks a little more.

“I’m here,” Greg replies, keeping his own voice low.

Mycroft doesn’t respond, his head still lowered, shoulders sagging.

“I love you,” Greg says.

He sits beside Mycroft on their sofa, holding back from touching the man he misses so desperately.

Mycroft shivers. His breath is visible in the cool air.

He sighs. “I love you.”

Greg shifts closer, his hand hovering over Mycroft’s shoulder.

His fingers tingle.

“Come to bed,” Greg whispers.

Bed is where they heal each other. Where secrets are told and skin is worshipped.

Mycroft doesn’t speak. He sighs deeply and stands.

Greg exhales as Mycroft walks towards the bedroom.

They’re going to be fine, he thinks.

They lie in bed, facing each other. Greg’s pillow is cold.

Mycroft won’t look at him, not really. He’s looking at the sheet, where their hands lie side by side.

Mycroft shivers.

“If you were here,” he says, “I would tell you I love you.”

Greg frowns.

“If you were here, my silver fox, I would hold you and press my apologies into your skin.”

Greg shivers. His skin is cold despite the blankets.

“If you were here,” Mycroft’s voice breaks, “I would love…love you.”

Greg shivers again.

He is no longer cold.

He is fading away.

“I love you,” he whispers.

Mycroft’s tears stain the sheets.

Greg’s do not.


	13. In Silence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft's anxiety is a burden.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Anxiety attacks.

Mycroft curled in on himself, hugging his knees tight to his chest. Many years of boarding school had taught him to do this in silence. He gritted his teeth against the crawling sensation; it oozed across his shoulders and back, uncomfortable to the point of physical pain. When he realised how hard he was clenching his jaw he made a conscious effort to ease it up. The last thing he needed was to crack a tooth again.

Not on top of this.

It was excruciating. His anxiety was a constant battle, a second guessing of his own stability as it subsided before rearing its ugly head with no apparent cause. Some days it was calmer, a low level hum in the background of his mind. The coping strategies he used on a daily basis were second nature now, and when things were manageable he barely had to alter his behaviour. These days were precious; they made him feel that forbidden word. The word Mummy wouldn’t let him use, insisting it didn’t apply to anybody, not when you really knew them.

_Normal._

Other days were like this. Meetings cancelled where possible; others rearranged to allow him time to recover in between. Each interaction took such energy, especially when he couldn’t show his weakness, not for a second. Each breath was measured, calculated to help keep him as calm as possible in the face of ruthless scrutiny. He had long ago learned to sit exceptionally still, quashing the nervous mannerisms that gave away his agony. While he could control some of his body’s responses, others were not so easy to master.

People thought it extravagant that he had a private bathroom. Others made comments about his dedication to his job. None guessed that on these days, the really bad ones, a shower was necessary in between each meeting. The anxious sweat had a foul odour, and it soaked through his shirt without fail. Only a shower would remove the evidence of his body’s weakness. The pounding hot water on his back would ease his symptoms too.

Mycroft wondered if it was an unconscious connection between a shower and a period of respite. Probably, he thought, fingers gripping his elbows as he rocked on the floor, aching for this part to be over so he could stand under the scalding water. This corner of his office was blind to security cameras, a deliberate calculation on his part. He could take his laptop to the small chair and calmly step behind it, curling into the foetal position he needed until the waves of tension eased from his body.

He lowered his head into his arms, feeling the tears stain the fine wool of his jacket as he endured the crash of his heart against his ribs. The air rasped in his throat as he fought his body, pulling long, slow breaths into his lungs. His torso shook with the effort.

With sheer willpower, Mycroft pulled out one of his favourite alternate realities and dropped himself in it. A therapist had once suggested it; a way to remove himself from the situation, to give himself a calm, safe place to ride out the storm warring inside his body. He had a library of them now, all variations on the same precious theme.

 

_“Myc?”_

_The voice was calm and familiar, accompanied by the click of locks as someone let themselves in before re-securing the door._

_“In here,” Mycroft answered, his voice sleepy._

_He was calm, having arrived home and made himself tea. His book was engaging without being absorbing; he could easily bookmark his page and place it on his bedside table, turning expectantly to the door._

_Footsteps heralded the return of his light, his love, his partner._

_Greg stepped into their bedroom, shoulders drooping, a tired smile on his face._

_“Hello gorgeous,” he murmured. His eyes never left Mycroft as he dropped his coat on the floor, adding shoes, jacket and tie before crawling up the bed to collapse on his side of the mattress. His head ended up on Mycroft’s lap; the weight was comforting._

_Mycroft’s fingers wound through the silver hair, fascinated as always to find so many variations of shade on a single head. He would never tire of this, he thought, not with a thousand lifetimes to spend._

_Greg’s eyes were closed, enjoying the attention, and his hand came up to rest on Mycroft’s leg. “Tired?” Greg murmured, and Mycroft knew him well enough to know that he was done for the night. He’d rather sleep a while in his rumpled clothes than change now, a fact ascertained early in their relationship._

_Sliding down the bed, Mycroft reached up to turn out the light. They rearranged themselves until he was cradling Greg, the silver hair tickling at his nose. Gentle snores were enough to make him smile as he reached for his phone. His detective worked hard for their city. He deserved a lie in. Mycroft replaced his phone, having arranged for Greg to have the morning off work._

_They would lie in bed and hold each other instead, ignoring the rest of the world, for they encompassed everything to each other._

 

Mycroft sighed as he came back to himself. This particular variation always made him feel calmer, but it came at a price. The heavy weight that settled in his stomach was inevitable. Some days he could bear it; others he chose something different, unable to face the bald fact.

He would never be with Gregory like that. They would never have their chance, and he was alone here, curled in the corner of his office like a child avoiding an angry parent.

With a deep sigh, Mycroft started releasing his body from its stasis. Fingers first, stretching out and spreading apart. His head rolled on his neck, shoulders squaring and dropping, wincing at the abduction. His body had been curled in for so long; joints needed time to ease themselves back into normal motion.

Finally he was ready to stand up. It was a slow process, breathing deeply, resting against his chair as he needed to. He could not leave this corner until nothing in his gait would give him away, otherwise it had all been for naught. When he was certain his actions would be natural, Mycroft stepped out in front of the chair.

Bathroom first, he decided. Then a clean suit and shirt, and several hours of silence working time while he gathered himself for whatever meeting had been deemed unmissable next. It certainly wasn’t, he knew, but it was easier to attend, smile blandly and deal with the fallout than refuse to attend.

Just because the fallout involved a vain hope, a dream brought to life by a cruelly vivid imagination, did not excuse him from his duty.

All lives end.

All hearts are broken.

Some more often than others.


	14. I Think They Broke Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Babysitting took more out of Greg than he thought it would, and Mycroft is right there to console him. Fluff.

“I think they broke me.” Greg’s voice was muffled by the cushions he had just face-planted into.

“Three small children? Surely not, Gregory,” Mycroft’s voice replied, laced with warm amusement.

“So…loud. So hungry. All. The. Time.” He rolled over, offering Mycroft a pained expression. “Do you have any idea how much I spent on food today?”

“What about you? Did you eat?” Mycroft asked.

“I’m too tired to decide,” Greg groaned. “I need something…something.”

To his surprise, Mycroft kissed him, the taste of mint toothpaste still on his lips.

“You’ve been smoking, Mycroft Holmes.” When Mycroft raised one eyebrow, Greg explained, “Toothpaste at 5pm?”

“A stressful afternoon,” Mycroft allowed. It was as close as he’d come to admitting it. Not that Greg would hold it against him; there were precious few vices open to Mycroft. The occasional cigarette was a small indulgence for someone under so much pressure, day after day.

“Perhaps something else with mint?” Greg asked, stretching. He offered his best grin to Mycroft, chuckling when Mycroft stood with an exaggerated huff.

“I’ll be back in a moment,” Mycroft murmured. Greg closed his eyes, thinking about mint ice-cream, mint brownies, mint chocolate…The moments slipped by, until Mycroft discretely cleared his throat.

Greg opened his eyes, lazily at first, then wider as he took in the image before him.

Mycroft, lying before the fire, a bowl of melted chocolate in front of him.

“Is that mint chocolate?” Greg asked.

Mycroft nodded, dipping one finger in and drawing it into his mouth, using his tongue shamelessly, his eyes challenging Greg to join him.

“Mint is my favourite,” Greg whispered. He stripped in record time and joined Mycroft on the soft layers of rug they kept here for this exact purpose. Making love by the fire was the ultimate indulgence. Adding mint ice-cream was brilliant, he thought, as Mycroft’s finger pressed against his lips, smearing chocolate across his teeth. The mint oil was heady, filling Greg’s nose as he sucked Mycroft’s finger into his mouth, a little breathless at the sounds his lover was making.

“I think it will be mine, too,” Mycroft murmured, rolling onto his back. All Greg needed was the right incentive to eat something, he thought with satisfaction.


	15. Spiderweb

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Awkward conversation drabble. Could be just about anybody, really. From a prompt word, 'spiderwebs'.

“You have something in your hair…um, do you want me to…”

“What? Where?”

“Just…no, back a bit…down…no, there’s still a bit…”

“Maybe you should-”

“If I just…”

“Thank you.”

“Anytime. Of course, no problem.”

…

…

…

“What is that?”

“Spiderweb, I think. That place was hardly clean.”

“Not the worst I’ve seen.”

“I’m sure.”

…

…

…

“No, wait, don’t…”

“Pardon?”

“Don’t…don’t go.”

“Don’t…go?”

“Yes. I mean no. Yes. Stay. Please.”

“Ah. Alright.”

…

…

….

“So can I buy you a coffee?”

“That would be…yes. Thank you.”


	16. Before

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Soft Mystrade smut.

It was remarkable how little Greg had known Mycroft Before.

Before Sherlock fell back into his old ways, and Greg spent whole nights sitting in his hospital room, willing him to pull through.

Before he’d seen Mycroft’s façade crack, when the nephrologist told him Sherlock’s body couldn’t handle it much longer, they’d probably need to find a donor.

That had been the catalyst, the final straw. When the doctor left, Mycroft must have forgotten Greg was even there. His bowed head and shaking hands betrayed his emotion, but it was the tears, falling to the floor as his silent sobs wracked his body.

They broke Greg’s heart.

He didn’t speak, just pushed off the wall he’d been propping up (or was it the other way around?) and slid his arms around Mycroft.

He was so far gone he didn’t even stiffen, didn’t pull away.

The Iceman melted into Greg, and they stood in the middle of the sterile hospital room, sharing their grief for the frail figure in the bed by the window.

That was when Greg vowed to care for Mycroft.

Two hours later they were in Mycroft’s flat, Greg’s hands gently washing shampoo from Mycroft’s hair, and then his own.

His hands learned Mycroft’s body that night. The soap was an excuse for touch, a reason to slide over shoulders and chest, legs and belly and finally, hesitantly, into the deep auburn hair at the apex of his legs.

That was when Greg really saw him, saw the emotion he’d hidden for so long beneath the suits and haughty expression.

It was glorious.

The night was a collage of skin and lips, salty liquid licked from skin, heat and gasping breaths.

It was affirmation of life, of Mycroft’s worth and Greg’s, and the strength that grew from their bodies surrounded them both, girding them for the days ahead.

It was the beginning of Them.


	17. Sleepy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sleepy Mystrade. Inspired by a video of a puppy wiggling under its sleeping friend's front leg.

Mycroft stopped dead, almost tripping over his own feet as he took in the scene before him.

 

Gregory Lestrade. Asleep on Mycroft’s sofa.

 

His work sofa, to be fair, but still. Mycroft had left him briefly, asking Anthea to clear his morning. It was after 3am, they had finally resolved the worst of the Masterson matter, and neither had slept more than a few hours at a time in the last week.

 

He deserved a few hours’ down time.

 

They both deserved a strong cup of tea and a few moments of quiet companionship before a car was summoned to take Gregory home. Some personal leave was due Gregory too – Anthea would ensure that as well.

 

Returning with the tea-tray, saucers rattled at Mycroft’s abrupt halt. Gregory had stretched his arms along the back of the sofa, rumpled white cotton shirt giving way to olive forearms, framing the length of the deep burgundy leather. His head was tilted back, his mouth open, snoring gently.

 

He was adorable.

 

Mycroft stared for a long while, knuckles white as he gripped the tea tray. His own fatigue was affecting his depth perception, giving the scene a Hitchcock zoom he knew was all in his head. Blinking, he looked at the space bracketed by Gregory’s arm and body. It was inviting, promising warmth and a comforting heartbeat, should he rest his head against the sleeping form.

 

As he watched, Gregory shifted, the arm closest Mycroft dropping, his hand resting on his abdomen. The space had changed, but it was no less tempting.

 

There was no thought. No internal debate, no agonising vacillation.

 

Mycroft moved, his actions careful as he set down the tea tray. Eyes locked on Gregory, he shed his jacket and tie; the waistcoat stayed, cufflinks and pocket watch slipped carefully into his jacket pocket.

 

A quick stuttering breath, a step closer. Another, his lungs refusing to function.

 

Carefully, slowly, Mycroft settled on the sofa beside Gregory, not part of their bodies touching. He watched the man sleep for a long, drawn out beat, heart thudding as he considered.

 

This was it. The last moment he could draw away, return his appearance to its usual state and suppress the urge.

 

No. Mycroft chased away the thread of doubt. He levered off his shoes and slid them under the sofa before lifting Gregory’s arm, ducking his head, leaning incrementally into Gregory until his weight was borne on the gentle rise and fall of Gregory’s chest.

 

It was heaven. Mycroft closed his eyes, his breathing matching Gregory without effort, calming himself.

 

And then Gregory moved.

 

Mycroft’s heart stuttered, panic setting in, before he realised it was sleepy shifting as Gregory subconsciously acknowledged the body pressed to his side. He held his breath until Gregory settled, his arm tightening around Mycroft’s shoulder.

 

He had been wrong. This, this was heaven. To be cradled by Gregory, to feel the weight of his arm holding Mycroft close, keeping their bodies together as they breathed in tandem.

 

Although it would be temporary – and who knew how Gregory would respond when he finally awoke – Mycroft was too tired, too weary of suppressing every urge to care. Even if this few moments of consciousness enveloped in Gregory’s arms was all would experience, it was better than the long lonely hours he had consoled himself with.

 

Just as he was drifting off, fatigue pulling him under, Mycroft felt a brush against the top of his head, a gentle rock of Gregory’s torso towards him as a sleep-roughened voice murmured,

 

“Finally, Mycroft.”


	18. Nothing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Desperate Greg, sad and alone. Angsty-McAngst.   
> Trigger Warning: Depression.

Greg was…blank.

Sitting on his sofa he couldn’t even remember what he was wearing. The idea of looking down – dropping his head maybe 60 degrees, allowing his eyes to settle and focus, kick-starting his brain to make meaning of the images – was far too complex.

He sat still, eyes dull, unfocussed as they stared somewhere between the wall and the carpet. The rise and fall of his chest felt like a victory each time – a hollow victory, with nothing to show for it but an extra second of life sustained.

He could feel his lungs expanding only as much as necessary. His head lolled a little with each inhalation, neck muscles too lax to hold the weight still. The air was expelled fast, as soon as his diaphragm relaxed, leaving a gap between breaths.

There was nothing to measure time except his breathing, and he was not keeping count.

His body was separated, each piece floating alone.

He could not feel his feet. They were there in a weird, third-person sense; the nerves had stilled as the stimulation remained constant. _Neural adaptation_ , his brain supplied. One guess where that snippet had come from.

His fingers rested on something. He could feel each fingertip resting against something, the tendons neither stretching nor curling his fingers. Not flat, or warm, or cold…His brain stumbled slowly through adjectives until he realised there was other information.

Knees. Something was resting on his knees. That made sense, he thought with an effort.

Yeah.

They felt swollen, as though the rush of blood was pushing harder than usual against constrictive capillary walls. It pulsed in time with his heart, and he fancied he could feel the slight delay between the heartbeat and the throb in his fingers. Moving them was impossible, though the reality was moot. What would he need to move for? There was nobody to greet. No handshake, hug or drink to be offered. No hand to take or face to caress.

It was just him and his sofa and the increasingly pointless throb in his capillaries.

Why carry oxygen all the way there if nothing was happening? Why not just…stop?

Because the heart is a muscle, with no idea about desperate loneliness, bitter regret, the fear of a future shaped by someone who so clearly holds no regard for you.

No idea of the things that pass through his brain every day, save the few precious moments that show him a shadow of what he had been like. What he could be, if the crippling fear was gone. If it could burn away the memories of that matter-of-fact voice, the one that had declared love a million breaths ago, before the indifference had crept in. Before the day his future had been ripped to shreds, his secure future now dangling on the whim of that uncaring shadow of the man he’d loved so desperately.

But the black bird _was_ here, and like the one for sorrow of the nursery rhyme echoing his childhood, it seemed to have settled in for the long haul.

Not that it mattered.

Nothing could touch him now.

He was nothing.

_I am nobody_

_Nothing_

_Atoms and energy, like grass and leaves_

_As deceptive as a cloud_

_You think I am visible but_

_Up close I dissipate_

_And you were mistaken_

_I am nobody_

_Nothing_

_Not even the grass and leaves._

 

They were not his words, but they were perfect.


	19. Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft comforts Greg after a nightmarish day at work.

“Again?”

Greg barely heard the word, or the disappointed sigh. He couldn’t nod; his head drooped further, tears dripping to a new place on his shirt. The whisper of fabric as a body moved was louder than anything had been in a long time. His arrival home had been a long time ago; only the stiffness in his joints told him that. Otherwise, time was only marked by the ragged breaths he could barely control.

“Come on, love.”

Greg moved automatically. They had done this enough for him to know the drill. The bath would be full and fragrant and hot. Lights would be low and Mycroft would be tender with him, soothing his mind as he would a scraped knee or purple bruise. He knew the rigors of the job. The horrors, too sometimes.

Greg stood obediently as careful fingers removed his tie, his shirt, his trousers, everything. The hot water was perfect, pleasantly searing his skin as he lowered himself in. After a brief absence, Mycroft joined him as Greg knew he would.

Soft hands squeezed the washcloth over his shoulder, spreading soapy bubbles across his skin. It was bliss.

The silence was as much a gift as any of his other ministrations. Greg knew Mycroft burned to know what had upset him so much, but he held his tongue. Greg’s recovery was more important and every second of silent attention was a declaration of love.

Only when the water started to appreciably cool did they pull the plug. Mycroft wrapped them both in large robes, then left as Greg brushed his teeth and relieved himself.

They met again in bed, movements as coordinated as a pair of dancers. Greg slid between the sheets while Mycroft dimmed the lights. Their bodies fit together without awkward consultation. They knew how this needed to be, Greg cradled in Mycroft’s arms, one hand sweeping slow circles on his back.

Only then could he begin to breathe it out.


	20. Ease Your Way

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft cares for Greg after a late night.

Greg rolled his neck, wincing at both the protesting muscles and the icy water that slid down his collar. The crime scene was the classic ‘rainy late night’ which was neither as exciting nor as interesting as film noir made it seem. The crime was ordinary, the lack of evidence unimportant, given the free confession of the spurred loved – and Greg had wet toes. He’d been meaning to replace his work shoes for ages, but eventually the job had caught up with him. Now, the sad little digit wriggled uncomfortably.

“Might I suggest something to ease your way, Detective Inspector?”

Greg turned at the sound, grinning before he saw Mycroft’s face. “Christ, yes. Save me from this.”

“Certainly,” Mycroft replied. He murmured a few words to the DCI who’d been called in, then returned to take Greg by the arm.

“Shall we?”

“You’re a keeper,” Greg told him as soon as they made it into Mycroft’s flat. With a slight smile, Mycroft began stripping Greg’s damp clothes from his chilled body. He was shivering, despite the warm air. Mycroft’s hands were warm and businesslike, but Greg’s body was still doing its best to respond.

“Bath?” Mycroft murmured, finally freeing Greg’s toes from his wet socks.

“Mmmm,” Greg replied, as Mycroft kissed his way back up to Greg’s face. Their kisses were soft, the quiet warmth embracing them as the seconds ticked by. Finally, Mycroft turned, taking Greg by the hand and leading him down the hall to their en suite. The bath had been filling since before they arrived home – a luxury Greg would never scoff at given how often the current situation occurred.

“Join me?” Greg asked, sinking into the water. He watched as Mycroft removed his own clothes, one hand stroking lightly over his own skin, echoing the swirling caress of the water. When Mycroft joined him, their wet skin slid together beautifully. It was this which relaxed Greg more than the warmth or quiet. The gentle slip of hands ghosting over skin, soap aiding the smooth path. Bubble forming, the clear water turning slowly opaque as the soap traced up and down both bodies. When Mycroft turned over, reaching for Greg’s thighs, a matching grin spread over Greg’s face as he nodded his head. The sensation of fingertips skating up his inner thighs was unreal, the touch so light as to be mistaken for the water.

Mycroft’s fist around his cock was firm.

Unmistakable.

Greg sighed, his head tipping back.

This was what he needed.


	21. Thank Christ For John

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bit silly, a bit cracky...

Greg stared at the man waiting to be allowed entry to his flat. “But I didn’t order a pizza.”

“I assure you, this is the address,” the man replied.

Greg bit the inside of his cheek. “Seriously, mate, maybe it’s flat eight? Sometimes I get their stuff…you know, a three can look like an eight if you’re writing in a hurry.”

The eyebrow that rose at the term ‘mate’ was familiar and obviously not impressed.

Grey eyes stared at Greg, imploring him.

Greg raised his own eyebrows, leaning against the doorjamb as he waited.

A sigh. “Is this really necessary?” The words were murmured, half protest, half plead.

“I don’t know what you mean, Mister Anonymous Delivery Man,” Greg intoned, unable to keep the smirk from his face. He studied the tight lips, the resignation in the grey eyes.

It took another moment before the words were uttered. “Perhaps I could come inside and convince you?”

Greg allowed the smirk to grow into a full grin as his gaze lingered insolently on the more interesting parts of Mycroft’s body. “Oh, really?” He waited a second before relenting, “Yeah, that could work for me.” He turned, allowing Mycroft to pass him.

“Just on the table, thanks,” he instructed before stepping in nice and close. “So, you wishing you hadn’t bet on your brother yet?”

“Please do not mention my brother,” Mycroft murmured. “I still maintain that John’s influence was an unforeseen factor.”

“All’s fair,” Greg replied, nosing along Mycroft’s jaw, loving the slight tug of stubble. “Besides, Mister Anonymous Delivery Man, I’m not feeling all that convinced about the ownership of that pizza.”

Another huff of resignation. “Very well,” Mycroft said, his hands reaching.

Greg’s heart jumped at Mycroft backed him against the wall. _Thank Christ for John,_ was his last rational thought as Mycroft made good on his forfeiture.


End file.
